The Truth, The Whole Truth & Nothing But The Truth
by fukaimoriMidori
Summary: Sequel of sorts to Nightmare. A schizophrenic writer starts talking to Chase like he's real, and he has some revelations to offer her. Ongoing. She just won't learn.
1. Chapter 1

**The Truth, The Whole Truth And Nothing But The Truth**

**Number of words: 1667**

**Summary: Sequel to Nightmare. This is the story of a schizophrenic writer who has started talking to her characters like they were real.**

**Author's note: I realise the title isn't the most appropriate; I'll be happy to hear any suggestions you may have. And I'm not quite sure if this really belongs in FF, seeing as the "he" could be anyone. Reviews are welcome. **

**Disclaimer: i do not own Chase Young but Eva is my OC. (Please read Nightmare .net/s/5081151/1/Nightmare before reading this.)**

Christmas carols blared from the shopping centre's speakers. After a month long exposure to the same songs played repeatedly at inhumane volumes, I'm ready to run around the shopping centre with a bat in one hand, smashing every one of the speakers, but destruction of public property is illegal, and of course I would get into a hell lot of trouble. I settled for the not-as-satisfactory action of turning up the volume of my iPod.

I'm on the third floor, leaning on the banister that stretches along the perimeter of the shopping complex, watching the people moving around below. Scurrying like ants, I think. Or rats. I'm not in a good mood.

Somehow, I'm not surprised when he sidles up close to me. Close, but not uncomfortably so. I wait for him to speak, still gazing down at the families and couples moving in and out of shops, stubbornly resisting all urges to turn and face him directly. It's an old game he's playing, and one I don't want to lose.

From the corner of my eye, I can see he's wearing an ordinary pair of black jeans and a nice long-sleeved pale blue shirt. His long black hair is pulled into a neat queue at the nape of his neck. I don't look at his face, almost afraid of the expression I would see on it, but he appears to be studying the people, as I'm supposed to be.

I count the passing seconds. After five minutes, when it becomes apparent that he's not going to speak anytime soon, I decide I'd better start.

"Hi," I say quietly.

A long pause. When I start to wonder if he is ever going to reply, he clears his throat.

"Hello."

His voice, I notice, is rougher and huskier than I'd remembered, as if he were recovering from a sore throat, or maybe because he hasn't spoken for a long time and has rusted from disuse. I suspect the latter.

"I've not seen you for a long time," I say, still determined not to look at him.

"Is that so?"

"Yeah."

"I tend to lose track of time." To my surprise, he loses at his own game and turns to look at me. "Can we get out of here? I need a smoke."

Again, I am surprised. "Since when did you smoke?"

"Picked it up when I was gone."

I look at him for the first time, and almost faint from shock.

He looks exhausted. His skin is almost paper white, and violet shadows ring his still-lovely golden eyes. And he is so, so _thin_...

"What happened?" The question can't help but jump out of my mouth. I have never seen him look tired in any degree before; in fact, I have never seen him anything less than strong, arrogant and beautiful. I hadn't ever thought it was possible for him to feel fatigue, but he now he had the world-weary look I'd only ever seen on the old and dying.

He doesn't answer, just jerks his head in the direction of the exit and walks towards it, not bothering to check if I would follow or not.

I follow of course. It has been the only thing I can do since meeting him, and I think he knows it.

There is a field across the road, full of teenage couples who are busy drinking, smoking and kissing. He sits at a spot further away from everyone else, and I flop down beside him.

"How's Eva?" I ask.

He studies the measly few stars visible in the sky before answering. "Fine."

"Is that so?"

"Have your dreams stopped?"

For a second, I'm back at the top of the cliff, the shrieking girl's hands wrapped tight around my throat. For a moment, I can feel the fear again, as suffocating as a blanket wrapped around my face. I can almost see the dagger she whips out of nowhere, taste the coppery blood in my mouth.

"Pretty much," I say to him instead and lick my suddenly dry lips. "Does she know you're here?"

"Not yet. I suppose she will, eventually," he says casually, as if it doesn't matter. But then, it doesn't. Not for him anyway.

"Is she..." I lick my lips again. I wonder if he knows that my heartbeat has sped up to twice its usual rate. "Does she still hate me?"

A long pause, as if he were trying to find the right words to answer me. It's strange; he never was one to mince his words. I wonder when he started to weigh his words, and why.

"I don't know."

Somehow, I expected that. Maybe she has grown tired, like him. Maybe she is tired of hating me too.

"Do you hate me?"

He sighs and says very softly, "I did, once." he rummages in his pocket and extracts a packet of cigarettes and a Zippo lighter. It's a flat silver rectangle that gleams as sharp as a knife, a red Oriental dragon curling along its length.

_Why did you, when did you stop, why did you stop?_ The words are a confused tangle in my mouth, each one fighting to come out first. "Why?" is all I can manage.

With a metallic _ping,_ he flips the top of the lighter and stares at the red gold flame for a few seconds longer than necessary before lighting his cigarette.

"Because you never listened to me." He puts the cigarette to his mouth and takes a long deep drag before exhaling puffs of blue grey smoke. "You wanted me to help you, and I showed you how the way free from pain. You refused to listen, and got hurt, again and again and again. "

I blink, and wonder if his rhyme was intentional. "And you hate me because of that?" It seems silly. I never expected him to be anything less than cold and cruel to me, and now he was genuinely concerned about me?

"Until I grew weary of your complete indifference to your emotional welfare." He takes another long deep drag on his cigarette. The end of the slender white stick flares cherry red for a brief moment, then subsides to a soft ruby glow. The smoke hangs in the air, as heavy as our silence.

"I see." Not really, but it doesn't matter. I notice that no matter how much he puffs at the cigarette, it doesn't seem to get any shorter. There are other things I notice, like the elegance and glamour that he exudes as always, despite his drained expression. The way his fingers wrap lightly around the slender white cigarette. His eyes, shining like gold coins in the dimness. Details, all unnecessary details. Suddenly, I'm exhausted, probably feeling as tired as he looks.

"Kiss me," I say, wanting to feel in control again; wanting to feel more than I really am; tired, pathetic and completely powerless. At my command, he leans towards me stops when he is just a hair's breadth away from my lips.

"Are you sure?" he whispers. He almost sounds afraid. But that can't be right. He was _never _afraid.

"Is it Eva then?" I ask, my voice as low as his. I reach out to brush a hand against his hair lightly. He doesn't move, but I see the flinch in his eyes. "I'll worry about the consequences later."

"You know that's not it," he says, his voice so soft I can just barely make put the words.

"Kiss me," I say again, even though what I want to do is scream at him. It hurts; I want to be cruel, yet I want him to be kind. I want his love – or at least, some semblance to it - I realise, more than I had ever known. The night will not end well.

This time, he doesn't hesitate to press his lips against mine, rough and demanding. I wonder if it's anger that he feels, or need, then think I don't really care.

I am the one to break the kiss. Even then, he pulls me to him, pressing his body tightly against mine, his hands angling themselves in my hair, his mouth moving down my neck.

"You _belong _to me," I say harshly. I don't know if it's triumph I'm feeling, or something else.

He doesn't reply. Is it defeat, or fatigue he's feeling, or is he snickering in his head as he keeps something from me?

"You're _mine_," I can't help but reassert.

"No," he says, his deep voice like the rumble of thunder.

I try to still my shaking fingers, then bring my hands to his face, forcing him to look at me in the eye.

"_Yes_." The word comes out as a hiss, angrier and harsher than I had expected. "A mere servant, no, a _slave _can never hope to disobey his master." I had taken that sentence, almost word for word from a manga and hope he doesn't know it.

The laugh that escapes his mouth is a short and sharp sound, like a bark. "And who is the slave here?"

"You," I say immediately.

He shakes his head pityingly.

"No," he says. "You. It has always _been _you."

"I created you," I manage to mumble through bloodless lips.

He laughs again, short and sharp and incredibly harsh. "You sound like every mad scientist from cheap horror movies. Creations can turn against their maker. Look at Eva."

Again, the cliff, the girl with green eyes that glitter with insanity, the overwhelming fear and pain.

"So what now?" I finally say. "Do I kneel and call you 'milord'? Obey your every word?"

He smiles, and the bitterness of it is so sharp it hurts to see it. "You know you never had to do any of that. You created me so you could bind yourself to me, and you know it."

He kisses the top of my head and disappears, leaving me alone with his words, his silence, and his absence.

**End.**


	2. Chapter 2

**The Truth, The Whole Truth And Nothing But The Truth**

**Chapter 2**

**Number of words: 749**

**Summary: Once again, the writer is talking to him in the wee hours of the morning. She really needs a reality check; it's weird that it's the figments of her imagination are the ones that have to remind her. **

**Author's note: I realise the title isn't the most appropriate; I'll be happy to hear any suggestions you may have. And I'm not quite sure if this really belongs in FF, seeing as the "he" could be anyone. Reviews are welcome.**

**Disclaimer: i do not own Chase Young.**

It was late; so late at night that I imagined it was morning. The entire world seemed to be asleep, perhaps because someone had cast a spell, and the two of us were the only ones awake.

_What's wrong?_

His eyes still managed to glint in the dimness, gold coins at the bottom of a wishing well. I couldn't see his face in the dark, but I imagined I could hear concern in his voice.

_Nothing,_ I lied.

He heard the untruth as soon as it was out of my mouth. _Tell me._

There was the whisper of cloth against cloth, and then his hands were on my shoulders; somehow warm and strong and gentle, all at the same time.

_Tell me,_ he said again, now a soft whisper in my ear, a soothing shadow in the dark. Yes, he made it so easy to pretend. I didn't know why he did it, unless to torment me. It was easy to believe that, too.

_Don't laugh, _I warned.

_Never,_ he promised.

I bit my lip, wondering how to say it. _Stop being so nice._

_Huh?_ The surprise in his voice is so genuine I almost felt guilty for suspecting him. Almost, but not quite.

_You can stop that too,_ I said sharply, as always, shoving my emotions, my guilt under the carpet. Just as he had taught me to.

_Stop what?_ he asked, so confused, so sincere. I didn't know what to think now.

_Acting like you gave a damn._ The words were meant to be angry, meant to be flung, a poisoned dagger. I couldn't summon the anger, or any emotion; I was too exhausted, a wet rag that had been wrung and left out to dry.

He went very still. _Is that what you think? _he asked. _That I __care__?_

I couldn't meet his eyes, imagined them glowing molten gold, hot and furious like lava. But always, always, carefully contained, cautious and controlled.

_That's the way you act._

I saw him smile then, saw the sudden slice of ivory in the shadows.

_Little one,_ he breathed. The words were meant to be kind; or at least, his idea of kindness. They came out patronizing. _When will you __learn?_

_I'm only human._

_But you're not even __trying__._ Impatient now.

_I am. For you, I always am._ Somehow, even though I couldn't feel a thing, the words were sad.

_You have to try for __yourself__,_ he corrected. One of his hands left my shoulder, and then was in my hair, combing through the strands gently. A pause, a long one.

_You can't __want__ me to care._

I didn't say a thing, letting my silence speak for itself. When the penny dropped, its clanging was so loud I half-expected the entire world to wake with a start.

_Ah, little one._ For once, his tone wasn't laced with venom, not even the shadow of a taunt. _You can't __want__ me._

I reached up to brush his lips with mine.

_I do,_ I whispered. _You said it yourself. I created you to bind myself to you._ The words are a tangle in my mouth. _I love you._

He laughed, and it's a harsh sound, a bitter one. _What was it you wrote? __I cannot love without a soul._He quoted the line I had written for him, his voice velvety smooth. He knew, as I did, what came after that - he kills her, the love of his life.

I had always wanted to be that girl.

_Try._ It feels strange to say this, but I have to attempt it. _Try to remember what's it's like to love._

_Do you even know what it is?_

The question cuts like a sharp knife, but my answer is immediate. _Yes, I do. I love __you__._

He took my face, forced me to look into his eyes.

_No,_ he said so _so_ gently. He made it so easy to pretend he cared. _Love is just a device for you, something to move the plot along. You don't know what it is._ He wrapped his arms around me, hugged me like he cared. Like he loved. _I am nothing. Just a figment of your imagination._

_You're real enough to me._ He was warm, gentle. Everything I wanted him to be, and more. _No human could ever compare._ It was only the truth.

He laughed again, the sound harsh and jarring in the early morning quiet. _But,_ he whispered in my ear, told me the very important truth. _I don't exist._

And then he was gone.

**End.**


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